She walked ploddingly, picking a few primroses and the first violets, that smelled sweet and cold, sweet and cold. And she drifted on without knowing where she was.

Till she came to the clearing on the far end of the wood, and saw the green-stained stone cottage looking almost rosy, like the flesh underneath a mushroom, its stone warmed in a burst of sun. And there was a sparkle of yellow jasmine on the door: the closed door. But no sound: no smoke from the chimney: no dog barking.